Of Camelot Rain
by StillWaters1
Summary: Merlin always slept well when it rained.


**Title:** Of Camelot Rain

**Author:** Still Waters

**Fandom:** Merlin (BBC)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Merlin. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

**Summary: **Merlin always slept well when it rained.

**Written:** Draft 5/30/13. Edited 6/17/13, 6/18/13.

**Notes:** This is a companion piece to my "Sherlock" story "Of London Rain." The idea of John Watson and Merlin each relating to the rain in specific ways was one of those "middle of the night" ideas inspired by a straight week and a half of rain followed by further reflection on the individual characters. While I saw John finding privacy and white noise in the rain, I clearly felt Merlin saying that he felt less alone and more connected with it, as if his magic found a kinship within the rain; rain being part of the earth, and the earth having magic of its own. It made me think of Balinor's dialogue in 5x12 where he tells Merlin: "You are son of the earth, the sea, the sky. Magic is the fabric of this world... and you were born of that magic. You are magic itself." After sitting with all of that, this piece was the result. As always, I truly hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading and for your support. I cherish every response.

* * *

Merlin lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the familiar weight of Gaius's book of magic on his chest and the silence brought by the man's absence loud in his ears.

With the physician out attending to a dying elder in the lower town, Merlin had a rare night to himself. No duties to Arthur, no chores for Gaius. Just peace and quiet and a room to himself.

He hated it.

There were several reasons why Merlin kept so busy, working what should have been impossible hours between Arthur and Gaius; first among them, of course, being his loyalty, love, and devotion to both men. But there was another darker, more private drive behind working himself nearly to the point of exhausted collapse - and that was so he _would_ collapse; would be so utterly exhausted that his body would have no choice but to immediately shut down into dreamless, unhindered unconsciousness. Because the time that passed before normal sleep finally took hold was unbearable. Without the activity of duty, without the sound of himself prattling on as Arthur teased and ordered him about, without shared meals with Gaius and companionable evenings filled with the sound of book pages turning and medicines being prepared…..there was silence.

And in that silence, Merlin was crushed by his destiny – by fear, self-doubt, questions without answers. Haunted by whispers of 'Emrys' as destiny stripped him of the name Hunith gave him with love and forced the name foretold by prophecy in its place.

He felt powerless. Scared. Doomed.

Doomed to fail.

Which was why he nearly cried with relief when it started to rain.

Because rain was part of the fabric of the world, like the magic that ran through all of life, the magic that Merlin _was_. He connected with the rain, found kinship in the thread that tied them together, and no longer felt so alone. Time shifted under magic's hand, isolating the sound of each individual raindrop, parsing sheets of water down to distinct heartbeats against glass, stone, and earth; a heightened sensitivity within which the earth's magic brought Merlin comfort, turning a deluge into a chorus of supportive presence.

Water met glass, but Merlin didn't hear _rain_: he heard the words of the Old Religion and those of languages long dead, spoken by his magic's earliest kin. The heart-thumping pound of hundreds of dragons' wings beating in unison in the days before the Great Purge. The soft brush of wind sighing through fields of grain on the first day of the harvest and his mother's warm voice calling him to supper after a long day's work. The reverent, tentative joy in their mutual voices as Merlin and Balinor uttered the words "father" and "son" for the first time. The sound of ancient book bindings cracking with use, of ink and charcoal and chisel committing stories to the future. The dozens of significant, layered ways Arthur said "Merlin" and the unashamedly raw, honest love in Gaius's voice when he said it. The sound of Gaius grinding herbs while Merlin turned brittle book pages and practiced spells across the table. The crackle of the fire in Arthur's chambers as Merlin polished already sparkling armor while Arthur worked through a speech out loud. The echoes of their laughter as Arthur threw crumpled drafts at Merlin's head in response to his cheeky commentary.

Merlin drew in a shuddering breath. Like magic, rain was often accused of being evil – too little and people died of hunger and thirst; too much and villages, crops, and lives were washed away. And yet, when the conditions were just right, the crops flourished, the wells were full, and people were at peace.

Balance was such a fragile thing.

Merlin sent out a silent 'thank you' to the rain, tears of gratitude bright in his eyes. For tonight, there was no tormenting silence. No destiny, no Emrys. There was just the sound of connectedness, of the magic he was born of; soothing him and telling him he was not alone.

Choking back a joyful sob, Merlin closed his eyes and lost himself in the magic of the rain; the language and presence within water on glass.

Three hours later, Gaius limped up the steps to Merlin's room, returned the book to its hiding place, and covered the peacefully sleeping boy with a spare blanket. Leaving a single candle burning, he shut the door with a fond smile and returned to the main room, the sound of rain steady against the darkened windows; a lullaby sung with a castle guard's steel resolve and a parent's protective instinct.

Gaius made his way to the hearth to build up the fire, feeling the weight of his sodden robes down to his very bones with each aching step. But he never once cursed the weather. Despite his protesting body, he was, in fact, _glad_ of it.

Because Merlin always slept well when it rained.


End file.
